Secrets
by moonlitelm
Summary: One-shots about some of our favorite characters thinking about what they have to hide from all of their friends and loved ones. Some VERY conflicting themes, read with discretion. Stan, Kyle, Kenny, Eric, Butters, Clyde, Wendy, Bebe, Ike and Shelly.
1. Alcohol

**Alcohol**

I hate it when people complain to me about their lives. The only one, who really has any reason to complain, is Kenny. Kyle bitches all the time about how horrible his parents are, but he doesn't understand at all. He gets everything he wants; his parents are good role models.

Kenny understands me, and I know he does. On the days when everyone else is busy, he comes over. We sit around, and he doesn't so much as bat an eye when my dad stumbles into the living room, clad only in his dirty white briefs. He just smiles and greets my dad with a muffled "Hey Randy," and then turns back to the TV.

Kyle and Cartman have the tendency to stare at my dad in shock and horror. It's as if they've never seen a drunk before. I know Kyle's parents don't drink, but you'd think Cartman would be used to it with the slew of people his mom drags in.

We're in grade twelve now, getting ready to graduate in a few months. Kenny and I will be staying back a year, I already know it. Shit, it could end up being more than a year. Who the fuck cares.

I remember last year, during a party at Token's, Kyle screaming at me about getting drunk. He just really doesn't understand.

I sigh and my head lolls back against my headboard uselessly. Ken always warned me not to drink liquor straight, but I really need it. My parents are fighting downstairs, and I swear I can hear a buzzing noise coming from Shelly's room. I really don't need to know about her pleasuring herself.

I reach over to my nightstand and turn my music up, trying to drown out the noises around me. Somehow, they always seem louder than any noise I could ever make. A glass smashes downstairs, and I know mom's thrown something at dad. Absently, I take another deep gulp of whiskey.

I stole it off of Uncle Jimbo and Ned, but I doubt they'll notice anytime soon.

Wendy broke up with me last week. She says I always smell like a boozer. I guess she's one of the many people who don't understand. When you're surrounded by this shit all the time, it kind of gets to you, you know?

She called me an alcoholic. Kenny laughed in her face and said, "Dumbass, he's a drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings."

The look of disgust that was on her face swims into my mind. I gulp loudly, then pull the bottle back up to my mouth. My head is pounding and I shuffle downwards, laying it against a pillow. I roll onto my side, body strumming. The whiskey spills out of the still opened bottle, sloshing against my sheets and the front of my pants.

I whimper and close my eyes, trying not to vomit. It works – for about a minute. I wretch quietly, ruining my pillow with thick, pungent smelling bile.

I haven't really been sober in days.

I wait until the dizziness passes, then I drag myself up out of bed. The bottle is closed, and stuffed into my laundry basket. I've been doing my own laundry since grade six, mom doesn't bother to check through it anymore. My booze is safe there.

My blankets and pillows are dragged off the bed. I use a dirty pair of gym shorts to wipe my face clean, then they're tossed into the pile too. I lift the soiled bed clothes into my arms, then stumble down the stairs. I miss the last step, but catch myself before I fall. Regardless, I thump against the wall with a heavy _thud._

My parents are silent for once.

"Stan?" My mom calls. I can hear the concern in her voice, and it makes me want to laugh.

"Just doin' some laundry ma." I call back, words slurred and garbled.

"Stan, it's too late to be doing laundry." She replies. I can hear a cupboard door opening, and I can only assume that she's getting the broom out to clean up whatever she broke earlier. The lid of the garbage can bangs open, the door closes, and then she's rounding the corner with dad.

"Stan what happened? Did you get sick? Honey, do you have a fever?"

This time I do laugh at her concern. It's almost pathetic really. Their behaviour has fucked Shelly and I up so much, but at times like this, they both act like responsible, loving parents. At least the McCormick's don't try to hide their idiocy. They're just plain white trash. I wish my family would stop trying to hide behind the pretty house, and fancy words.

"Yeah mom. I got sick. Sick and tired." I laugh again and push away from the wall, hiccupping to myself.

My dad furrows his brow and frowns, glancing at mom real quick. "Stan..." He starts. I actually pause, wanting to hear what new retardation comes out of his mouth. "Have you been drinking?" He takes a step towards me, eyes flickering from my face to the laundry in my arms.

"Maaaybe." I drawl out, raising an eyebrow. I'm swaying on my feet, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear my blurry vision. "Hey dad, didya know alcoholism is hereditary?" I mock, then shake my head. I try to walk around them, wanting to get my laundry in the wash. The smell of my sheets is making my stomach churn.

Dad grabs my arm, and drags me towards the couch. Under normal circumstances I could kick the shit outta my dad. I guess being drunk, and feeling sick isn't a good combination.

"Stan, you're too young to be drinking." He scolds. I can feel a lecture coming on, and I roll my eyes. "Yeah, well Jimbo says he's started when he was twelve, so back off. It's not like I drink ever fucking day." Okay, so it's a lie. And I'm swearing at my parents. Heh, I'm going to be in so much shit tomorrow...

"That's Uncle Jimbo to you mister!" Dad's eyes are dark with anger. Mom just scuttles over and gathers my laundry. She rushes off, and I smirk to myself, glad I don't have to do it.

"Whatever Randy."

I laugh at the shocked look on his face. I guess I never realized how drunk I was.

Dad shakes his head and pulls me up. "You go sleep this off Stanley, and we'll talk in the morning." He says in a low voice, as if talking to a frightened animal. I snort at him, nostrils flaring.

"Yeah? What if I don't wanna talk? What then?" I lean closer, trying to see how my words are affecting him. He looks sort of scared.

Scared of me? Mm, no. My dad's too fucking stupid to be afraid of someone who could kick the shit out of him.

Scared for me.

Realization sweeps over me in a wave, and I shake my head, ignoring the sick feeling it brings to my stomach.

"I'm goin' t'bed." I mumble, moving to the stairs. I don't want to look at him. I don't want to see the pity in his eyes. The fear, the questions. He's not supposed to be worried about this. This is something he brought upon me. He wants to blame it on me.

He calls after me, asking if I need help, but I ignore him. I climb the stairs as quickly as my drunken body will allow, then lay on the floor of my bathroom. I'm planning on sleeping here tonight. I close my eyes and press my cheek to the cold tiles of the floor.

He wants to blame it on me, but it's all his fault.

It's all _his_ fault.


	2. Darkness

**Darkness**

My life is perfect. My dad's a rich fancy lawyer; my mom's a smart, outspoken woman. Not the prettiest, but she's my mom and I still love her. I have a little brother, and he's a genius. We don't have any pets, but who needs animals when you live in the middle of butt fuck nowhere, and are surrounded by wildlife?

I'm a straight A student, despite not being Ike. I study my ass off to make sure I have good grades, to make sure that I don't just live up to my parents expectations, but that I exceed them.

I'm dating the gorgeous Bebe Stevens. Blond, skinny, and a cheerleader.

To everyone else, my life seems perfect. But to me? It's a living hell.

I slam the front door shut and kick off my boots, rolling my eyes when my mom yells at me for it. "Sorry!" I shout back to her. I got used to lying to her face so long ago. Her and dad eat out of the palm of my hand. They like to pretend that everything's fine in our little world.

Heh, last year she flat out told me that there was nothing wrong with me. That I was going out of my way to make myself miserable. I wanted to see a doctor at Hell's Pass, to talk to someone besides them.

Every Sunday night, I have a therapy group with my mom and dad. They sit me down, and try to force me to talk about my problems.

I make up stupid things. Like an argument with Cartman, whatever. Ike's the only one that can see through my lies. Like I said, the kids a genius. When I tell the parents things, he stares at me and shakes his head, like he knows every little detail of every single thought that floats around in my brain.

My life feels fake to me. I go through the motions of being the son everyone wishes they had, never really feeling like anyone wants me. As hard as I try, I'm never going to be good enough for my parents. Ike's the smart one. I try so hard to be half as good as he is, but he's already taking a few of the same classes as me.

He's five years younger than I am. He should be in grade eight, but there he is, in high school. He shares two classes with me, and three with Wendy.

I wonder how hard she has to try to get good grades.

I walk into the kitchen and kiss my mother's cheek. She asks if I need a snack, and I decline.

Our mandatory after school conversation happens. "How are your day?", "What did you do?", "Are you feeling okay, Bubbe?"

I give her the answers that she wants, then rush up to my room. Ike is given a punch in the shoulder when I pass him in the hall, for no reason other than the fact that I feel like it. My head pops into dad's home office for a quick "hey", and then I'm finally in the sanctuary of my room.

I convinced mom to get me a lock back in tenth grade. Dad told her that teenagers have urges, and that it's not fair that I don't have any privacy. She reluctantly agreed.

It was a small victory against her, but a victory none the less. I rip my hat off of my head and toss it into the corner. It's wet from the snow, and I know it's going to leave a mark on my carpet. Mom'll be pissed about it in the morning, but I really don't give a fuck.

I take a bag of chips out of my backpack and practically devour them. I just want something in my stomach. I'm probably not going to be eating dinner tonight. It pisses mom off, but I really could care less. I don't think I've eaten three real meals in a day for months.

I pry my window open silently, and turn my lights out. I sit on the floor under the windowsill, and ignore the cold that seeps into my room.

"Yeah, I'm perfect." I whisper as I pull an already rolled joint out of my backpack. I light it up, and take a heavy drag. I hold the smoke in my lungs for as long as I can, then exhale it towards the open space above me. I watch as the fading sun highlights it. The smoke is thicker than tobacco smoke, and it swirls mockingly as it flies out my window, dissipating into thin air.

I wish I was smoke. That, when the going got tough, I could float out someone's window, or be sucked into their fan only to disappear forever. I huff to myself, and then take another drag.

It doesn't take me too long to finish the joint. Kenny says I smoke like a bitch, but whatever. I get the shit in faster, and it does its job. I stub it out in the edge of the window, watching as the white paint is smudged black. I use my thumb to wipe it away then flick the tiny butt outside. I highly doubt mom would spend her time scouring the yard for things to accuse Ike and me of, so I think it's safe to throw my shit outside.

Leisurely, I strip myself of my clothes and lay in bed. The pocket knife I filched off of Cartman comes out of my pants pocket. I flip it open and tilt it this way and that, watching as the sunlight bounces off of it.

As a precaution, I drag myself back to the window and close my curtains. You never know if your neighbours can see into your house. If they saw what I did, lord knows my mom would hear about it. Then she'd actually have a _reason_ to put me in the hospital.

You know, because anyone who smokes a bit of weed, or maybe cuts themselves is totally crazy.

I've always heard that cutters are attention whores, but I really don't think it's true. I mean, look at me. I don't cut myself then cry to my friends about it. Fuck, I don't even do it in places that people can see. I don't _want _anyone to know.

I guess it's not so much about the cutting, as it is about me being perfect. No one can know that I'm not perfect. I have to be the best, it's just how I am. If they knew about this, then I'd fall off my pedestal. I may be living in a pretend world, but I like the fake glory it brings, whenever someone says "Kyle Broflovski? Oh I know him. He's that..." whatever it is I'm being great at, at that moment.

I take my hand and flick the knife, watching in fascination as it slices over the pale skin of my leg, tearing easily through the flesh. The fact that the knife belongs to Cartman only makes the satisfaction of the sting that much more pleasing.

The blood is cleaned up with a towel I keep just for these purposes. Mom thinks the blood is from my nose, because I've always been prone to nose bleeds.

I dab at my leg until I know I won't ruin my sheets. I bandage myself carefully, then lay down. My body hums with the weed and blood loss and I moan softly to myself, hand sliding down my chest to wrap tightly around my dick.

The only time I get hard, is when I'm like this. I hear that depression causes lack of sexual desire. Maybe I have depression.

I shrug and roll over, onto my side. My hand is working furiously as I make small gasping noises.

All I know is that whatever I have, it's perfect.


	3. Abuse

**Abuse**

Ya know how sometimes, people are called 'white trash', and everyone pictures crack addicted alcoholics, who live off welfare, have a herd of kids, and beat their wives? Yeah, that's my family, minus the crack. We're too poor to afford crack.

And dad doesn't beat mom. He usually goes after me. Kevin's too big to hit, and Karen's too small. Plus, dad doesn't think that I'm his. It's cause my hair's so bloody light, and the other two got brown hair like him.

We're hicks, rednecks, purebred white trash. Whatever you want to call us, we're not first class citizens by any means.

I don't really give a shit though. Sure, we eat waffles for dinner every night cause mom and dad can't stop hittin' the bottle, but it's not a big deal.

I know if I told Ky or someone, they'd buy me lunch. But I'm a McCormick, not a fucking mooch.

I know if I told them that dad gets crazy drunk and beats the face off of me, they'd go all psycho and try to "save me". Especially Kyle. He'd tell his mom, and all hell would break loose. They're a bunch of self righteous assholes, as far as I'm concerned.

Yeah, Ky's my friend and all, but he has a stick up his ass the size of Colorado.

He'll think that just 'cause dad hits me, he's a bad dad. I know he loves us all, and I love him. My old man raised me, took care of me. Sure, we don't have much, but what we do have is fine by us.

I walk into the house, and close the door behind me. It swings right back open when a gust of wind hits against it, and I tilt my head curiously. I squat down and fiddle with the knob – broken, again. I guess dad musta done it while I was 'at class' or somethin', cause it was fine before.

I quickly fetch a brick from outside – one of the many we get thrown at our house, by self righteous fuckasses who think McCormick's have no place in South Park – and use it to hold the door shut. It's not the best thing, but it'll have to do until I scrape up enough money to get it fixed.

What, you really thought my parents would pay for it?

I head to the kitchen, pull open the fridge door. It's empty, besides a six pack of beer. I contemplate snagging one, then decide against it. I actually have to do the homework we got today, or I'll fail grade ten math, again.

I'm in grade twelve, by the way.

"Ken get your ass in here!" Dad hollers from the living room. I pause before entering, listening carefully to the sounds of our house. Mom must be gone, cause the mini TV in her room isn't on. I can't hear Kev snoring, and Karen's not screamin'. Guess it's just me and dad.

Wonderful.

I shuffle out, watching my torn up sneakers as they drag across the carpet. Stan gave me this pair when his mom said they were too old, and that he had to get new ones. They were brand new to me, and I had no problem wearing them, even if they are half a size too big. I don't bother taking them off at the door. Lord knows what's livin' in our carpet. Bed bugs like sensitive areas, it's safer to keep 'em on.

Dad's sittin' on the couch, watching the TV. I don't know why I didn't notice him when I came in. Guess I've been distracted lately. All these thoughts of failing all my classes _again_. The rate I'm goin', I may as well drop out and get a job workin' at the gas station. No college for me.

I blink a few times and give my dad a crooked smile, "What were you sayin'?"

Dad's eyes narrow, darken. "Boy you better start listenin' when I'm talkin' to you." He grumbles, head swivelling back to the TV. Swivel – See Ky, I do know big words. Kinda.

"Sorry pops." I drawl slowly, rolling my eyes at him now that he can't see me doing it.

"The fuck you thinkin' so hard about Ken? You didn't get a girl knocked up now did ya?"

"Nope." I eye the heap of cans sitting on the floor and cringe internally. He's been drinking. The urge to run almost takes over, but I know that if I do...there'll be hell to pay when I get back. Mom'll get worried about me, and her frantic cries of "where's my baby?" will just urge dad to drink and drink and drink until I'm home again.

Definitely not worth the pain, just to escape one l'il ole beating.

He stands up from the couch, watching me carefully, waiting to see if I'll make a break for it. I don't. I stand still, and lower my head a bit.

They say predators like the thrill of the hunt, but I think dad hates it. He's always nicer when I'm good, and just stay quiet.

He grabs me by the front of my coat, and I feel myself flying. I land on the table with a muffled groan, trying my damndest to keep quiet. "Take your coat off Ken."

I comply, raising myself off the table just enough to be able to unzip it, then slip it off. I toss it onto the side and hunker down against the grimy wood. Years of use rub against my face, and I crinkle my nose as a bug of some sort scuttles past it. I really hope the fucker doesn't try and climb up my nostril, cause that'd just be nasty.

The leather side of dads belt swings by my face and I cringe. He pulls it away, folds it in half, and snaps it. I can't see, but I can hear, and he's done this enough times for me to know just exactly what he's doing.

The first slap of leather against my back causes me to cry out in pain. I'm told to shut up, moments before the second one lands across a sensitive bruise. I make a noise again, and the leather changes to the cold, biting metal of a belt buckle.

The louder I get, the angrier he gets. Metal changes to his fist, changes to silence. I sob quietly into the table, watching as my tears wipe away some of the dirt, making the small puddles almost _clean_ looking.

Nothing's clean about being a McCormick. He walks away, and I get up, dragging my aching body to the bathroom. We don't have any hot water, but I don't mind settling for the cold. It numbs my body, makes me forget the pain.

We're hicks, rednecks, purebred white trash. Whatever you want to call us, we're never going to change.


	4. Disgusting

**Disgusting**

I grab a handful of chips, and stuff them in my mouth. They're those thick cut ruffled chips. I chew loudly and the crunch of the chips almost drowns out the noise of the TV. I guzzle some Pepsi from the two litre bottle I have, taking large gulps. The noises are soothing to me. I can hardly hear my own thoughts over Terrence and Phillip, and my own disgusting noises.

I'm a fucking pig.

A worthless, fat, pig. I know I am. Mom acts like everything's fine and dandy. Hell, everyone does. Especially that freak show, Butters. The only one who tells it to me straight is Kyle. Our most recent fight fills my mind, and my eyes roll from the pain of it.

He doesn't know that his taunts of "bastard child" and "lard ass" cut _way _deeper than it seems. For every angry word he hurled at me today, another handful of chips goes into my mouth. Maybe if he weren't such a fucking _prick_, I wouldn't be so goddamn _fat,_ and my mom would be able to afford buying nice things for herself.

We look like we're living the high life, but most of her money goes towards me. We won't tell anyone, but we shop at the second hand store in Denver. She can't afford new clothes after feeding and spoiling me. She wants me to look as rich as Kyle does, but I know we'll never even get near that level.

I finish the bag of chips and my stomach churns. I stand and make my way to the bathroom, forcing a smile at my mom so she thinks I'm okay. She smiles back, and it makes me sick. I close the door on her smiling face, wishing she wouldn't look at me with such adoring eyes. I don't deserve it.

With that thought, I spin and grab the toilet – the only God I truly believe in anymore – and empty the contents of my stomach. Vomit splashes back up into my face, and I close my eyes in preparation. It's kind of pathetic how used to this I am. I wait until I'm done unloading everything I _just _ate, then drag myself to my feet.

I grab a cloth from the cupboard and wipe my face down, before brushing my teeth. My stomach is still unsettled, but I guess I'll have to live with it. Nothing I do makes it stop.

I guess you could call me a bulimic, but it's sort of involuntary. I don't try to make myself sick. Food and guilt, plus the nasty habit of over eating turned me into this. I feel disgusted by the girls you see that do this for the sake of it. Trust me; you don't lose any fucking weight. If anything, I feel like I've gained more.

This problem started back in kindergarten. So did the nickname fatass. I was chubby, like all little kids are.

Then mom started bringing people home.

I remember the noises used to scare me. After class, I'd be sitting watching Digimon and mom would start upstairs.

It sounded like someone was hurting her. The one time I walked in, she told me not to worry. She pulled a robe on, and I remember thinking how beautiful she looked with her hair all wild like that. My mother's always well kept.

She may be a whore, but she's not fucking trash. Try telling me that she is, and I'll stab you in the face.

She took me back downstairs and set me back in front of the TV. I stared up at her, asking all sorts of questions. She evaded them like she still does, and then brought me a bowl of chips.

The crunch, crunch, crunch, blocked the sounds of her being fucked out of my head. I watched Digimon mindlessly, counting my bites as I took them.

It became a routine of ours, and I just never stopped. After a while though, the eating became the solution to everything. When food didn't work, I demanded toys.

Years later, you have the fat fucking pig known as Eric Theodore Cartman. Or Cartman to everyone else, teachers included.

I'm not good enough for a first name.

When I was younger, I used to have a dream.

I imagined I'd be a successful, attractive man, with a trophy bride. My wife would be like Wendy Testaburger – strong and confident.

I look back at the toilet bowl and realize I can't be that strong, if this is what I spend my nights doing. I realize too, that Wendy would never want a fatass like me.

I sigh to myself and exit the bathroom, going to the kitchen. Mom shoves a massive bowl of ice cream over to me, and I eat it without hesitation. The cold dairy product helps to refreeze my heart, turn it back to thick ice. The fights I had today fade away, and the only thought in my head is _me_.

It's all ruined when mom turns around and asks if I'm going out tonight. I nod my head, and smile. It's a Friday night, two weeks before Christmas holidays start. Why wouldn't I be going out?

She watches me as I tug on my boots, and then my coat. My gloves, my hat, my scarf. She steps forward only to tighten my scarf, making sure I won't get cold. Then she's wishing me well and I'm out the door.

I take the van, even though I won't be needing it. Starks Pond is within parking distance. I drive myself all the way to the store, then get out and walk all the way back. If she goes out and see's the van anywhere near the house, she'll wonder what's going on.

She'll never ask, but she'll be worried.

I make my way through the trees, and eventually settle down on a log. The pond is covered in a thick sheet of ice. It'd make for a pretty picture.

My stomach churns once more, and I hurl all over the pristine snow, ruining it just like I ruin everything else.

I may be captain of the Hockey team, but I'm not popular by any means.

I tug my coat tighter around myself, and slide to sit in the snow, back against the log. I take deep, soothing breaths, then shove a handful of snow into my mouth. It melts, and the cold water slides down my throat, soothing my rolling stomach.

All alone on a Friday night, I sit and wish I was someone else, that I wasn't so disgusting, that someone would want me.

We all know it's never going to happen.


	5. Dirty

**Dirty**

Well, uh, I've never told anyone about it.

It bugs me a lot though.

I hate it when he comes to visit.

Sometimes, I feel like killing myself. Thinking it'll make things better. But then I remember the time I pretended to be dead, how crazy my parents went. Dad went so far as to bury me in the Pet Cemetery, hopin' I'd come back to life.

I came back from bein' Marjorine, but I never came back to life. I just came back to survivin'.

He only comes on holidays, so I guess it's okay. It makes him happy, and good boys put their family before themselves, right? I mean, family should always come first. That's why I don't mind dad grounding me.

Unless _he's_ here of course. Then the grounding is worse than hell. It almost makes me wish that Trent would come back, and put me outta my misery.

Aw, shucks, I sound so melodramatic.

I've got a good life. My mom and dad love me, although they don't show it very often. They're always hollerin' at me.

They all think I'm just so darn cute when I'm dressed up as Chaos. I'll never tell anyone, but I still dress like that sometimes. Usually after he visits. Chaos helps me a lot. He makes me feel like I'm strong, like I can do this. He's heartless, nothing can hurt him. Kinda like Rorschach, from Watchmen. They're both powerful and they don't need anyone.

I don't need anyone either, even as plain old Butters.

You know, I thought having everyone call me Butters would make it stop. Because it wouldn't be Leopold anymore. I act like I don't know why, but I'm the one that made the name. You are what you eat...I was hopin' that maybe, if I became like butter, I'd be able to slip through his grasp. I'd be greasy and slimy, and he wouldn't be able to grab onto me.

My plan failed, but the name stuck. I'll forever be known as Butters Stotch. Kenny likes to call me his Buttercup, or his little Butterscotch Sundae. That's only when I'm on all fours though. I'm really used to it now.

I wonder if Mrs Cartman ever feels so violated. She's such a lovely lady; I don't know how she lets them all get away with it.

Mr...Mrs?...Garrison and Sexual Harassment taught as that pedophile's usually stop when the kid hits puberty.

I'm still five foot fuck all – pardon the French...- so I guess I must look like a little kid still.

They also said that it's a brutal cycle. I wonder who hurt my uncle, the way he's hurting me? I can't imagine anyone wanting to do it, and he's so big and powerful, it's so _strange_ to think of him as a defenceless child.

I'm almost eighteen now, but I'm still defenceless. I don't want to tell mom and dad. They like to think that their world is perfect, and that nothing is ever wrong – besides me, that is. I'm okay with it, really. I'll keep doing...this, so that they don't have to ruin the Stotch family name.

Behind closed doors, we have a lot of issues as a family. I still love them both to death, and I know this would kill them.

I know that I'd be blamed too. Isn't that how it goes? I mean, who would want me. Kenny only wants me if he's looking at me from behind, and I have the wig on. Apparently I have a curvy behind. Sometimes he cuddles me afterwards, but I don't that he doesn't want me. Therefore, I must have done something to seduce my uncle, if even the town slut can't love me.

I don't think I wore any revealing but who the heck knows? I guess I'm just a little whore.

I roll over in bed and curl up under my sheets. It's three o'clock in the morning, and I know if mom and dad were to come in, they'd be some sore with me. I shoulda been asleep hours ago. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. If I count sheep, maybe I'll be able to sleep faster.

My door creaks open and my breath catches.

It's Christmas holidays. The family is visiting.

He's silent as he walks across the floor. I can feel when he steps on my Hello Kitty throw rug, and I hug my beanbag pillow closer to my chest. Hello Kitty's face is smashed against me, and I hold onto her for dear life. I know that _she_ loves me at least. She knows all my secrets, and I'll forever be grateful to her.

The side of my bed dips in and I scream inside my head. If I do it out loud, I know I'll get in trouble. I slow my breaths forcefully, trying to pretend I'm asleep.

"Leopold, I know you're awake." He whispers, hand snaking under my sheets. I feel it brush my naked thigh, and I tremble. He takes it as a good sign and moves further onto the bed, laying down behind me.

He presses himself into the small of my back, spooning against me like a lover should, not a family member. "Leo, Leo," he cooes, lips brushing the back of my neck. The little hairs there stand up, and I tremble again. "You love this, don't you baby?" His voice is soft, as he once more mistakes my reactions as a go ahead sign.

"No." I whisper, quietly as possible. Half hoping he hears me, and half hoping that he doesn't. I'm scared.

I'm tired of being scared.

"Don't lie." He mumbles, voice beginning to lose its loving tone. "You know you love this Leo." He sighs happily against me, breath ruffling my hair. I fall silent once more, heart racing as fast as a rabbits. I can hear it pounding in my head, and for a split second, I desperately wish it would explode.

Lying is bad. Bad boys get punished. Good boys don't lie. If I tell him I'm not lying, he'll think that I am, and I'll get punished.

I use this reasoning to keep myself quiet, while his hand snakes up my shirt. He brushes calloused fingertips over my nipples, telling me how pretty my little breasts are.

People wonder why I think I'm a girl.

My night shirt is baggy, and he uses it to his advantage, dragging it off of one shoulder so he can place his mouth there, nibbling and sucking. He's going to leave a mark. I'm going to have to be careful with what I wear tomorrow.

His hand leaves my nipples, and starts down my chest.

Lower and lower and lower, until finally, his fingers dip under the waistband of my pants.

I'm silent until he leaves my room. I roll over to watch him exit, counting every step he takes in order to keep my breathing even.

When he's gone, I close my eyes and cry, all traces of happiness gone and replaced with the feeling of a dirty, tainted soul.


	6. Manipulative

**Manipulative**

I purse my lips and shake my head, blond hair flying in every which direction. I bought the wig with the money I made, working with Tweak at the coffee store last summer. It makes me look so pretty.

I lean into my mirror, pursing my lips as I apply clear, sparkly gloss. It smells like strawberries, and it tastes like them too. Watching myself, I use my hands and a round brush to make the wig wispy. I know hair spray will make it stuck, so I use some of this expensive hair wax instead. It makes my hair look so soft, and shiny. I brush my fingers through it, eyes closing in pleasuring.

I feel amazing, even to myself.

I step back a bit so I can see myself fully, now that the makeup is all finished.

I feel most confident when I'm Marjorine. I feel like all eyes are on me, because I look good. If I were a different guy, looking at me, I'd want to date me.

Years of being screwed around by guys tends to get you a little bit confused.

I really don't care though. I'll adopt as many masks as I have to, to make it through the day. I'm just glad I have this one.

I smile at myself, eyelashes fluttering saucily.

This one is pretty, and this one gets attention.

I ponder over my footwear for a minute, before shrugging and grabbing a pair of boots.

I'm wearing a jean skirt, one that I made myself from some old denim I had laying around. It looks good, if I do say so myself. Mom thought me taking home economics was a stupid idea, but it paid off in the end.

Ah, mom, if only you knew.

I'm wearing a tight, light blue shirt. My bra and panties match it. I told my friends that I was buying it for a girlfriend I had online, and they believed me.

After all, Leopold Butters Stotch can't get anyone in real life. Of course I'd have an online relationship.

If Kyle knew that Bebe and I had had a "happy fun time" the other week, he'd be singing' a different tune, that's for darn sure. Bebe likes it when I look like a girl. She's the only one that knows I do this, and I can tell it turns her on.

She doesn't know that I slept with Kenny though...Kenny likes me to use the wig. As far as he's concerned, it's just something I have from back in fourth grade. It makes him feel like less of a "homo" when I wear the wig.

Bebe says that light blue matches my eyes, and since she's always drop dead gorgeous, I figure I'll take her advice. I tug my Hello Kitty sweater on overtop. I look hot without it, but South Park is freezing! I know the sweater doesn't match fully, but it's cute and warm. I flip the hood up over my long blond hair, and giggle.

It has a Hello Kitty face on it.

My stockings are white, and my boots are a very pale blue. I tug them on and zip them up, before pulling on a few of those jelly bracelets.

I'm not hot like Bebe, but I look damn fine.

My parents aren't home, which is the only reason I can go out like this. I'll have to sneak back in through my window tonight, but it's going to be worth it. They think I'm sick. It's why I didn't go with them to dinner.

That, and I really didn't want to see my uncle.

I grab my keys and twirl them around my finger as I bounce down the stairs and head out the back door. I'm practically trembling with excitement.

I have a date with Eric Cartman, and he has no idea who I am.

Hey, he's not the only one who can get blackmail material. I mean, I've been Professor Chaos for years. I know how to manipulate someone.

Tonight, I'm not Butters. I'm Marjorine.


	7. Unloved

**Unloved**

They say big boys don't cry. I have one, and only one response to that; _Bullshit_.

I'm over six feet tall, and I broke two hundred pounds last summer. I'm a big, _big_ boy and I cry all the time. Sue me.

All my friends think I'm just a giant wuss, but they don't understand. Usually what sends me into a fit is when I'm ignored, or I see something really strangely romantic or lovey-dovey.

Craig, Token and Tweak wouldn't understand why it upsets me so much, because they have shitty parents too. Craig's flat out ignore him, Token's are too busy to pay attention to him – he was raised by a nanny, what the fuck does _that_ say -, and Tweak's parents are just...weird. Always going on about metaphors and shit. The spazz can hardly understand when you tell him "The dog ate the cat" let alone some long assed metaphors about butterflies and sunshine. It makes no sense to me.

I guess that's just because I'm stupid.

Dad likes to tell me that I'm stupid. When he screams at me about my grades, it makes me happy. Even though I end up crying and he calls me a pussy. At least when he's screaming, he's playing attention you know?

Mom says that I look and talk like a hick, when I walk into the kitchen to get some grub. I tell her that she birthed me, it's her fault. She stares at me in shock and I laugh, "Oh come on, everyone knows about you and Stu!"

I call Kenny's dad by his first name. And, I'm totally lying out my teeth. Her face turns an angry red-purple anyway, and she starts screaming about how ungrateful I am. I listen to her, eagerly absorbing her words. When she sees the shit-eating grin on my face, she falls silent and storms away.

I follow after her like a lost puppy dog.

I watch her vacuum the carpet, silently praying that she'll tell me to do it. I just want her to talk to me. Instead, she ignores me. I wait for a while, but when I realize that it's futile, I give up and go upstairs. I slink around for a few minutes, then finally go to my room.

I can't even say that my parents love me.

I sit on the chair beside my window, and miserably watch the sun come up.

They've always been like this. Like life is too important, they can't miss anything in order to make sure I'm okay.

It's been like that ever since I was little. I've seen pictures of me as a baby, and we looked so happy. Once I started kindergarten, everything changed. Mom even wanted to send me to a school in Denver, to keep me away I guess. Dad said we couldn't afford it, and I had to stay.

You know, all the class pictures I've brought home, she's destroyed.

It wouldn't be so bad, if my friends paid some sort of attention to me. But, like my parents, they're too involved in their own worlds to notice me. I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a building, screaming down to a crowd. Everyone walks by me, ignoring me.

I heard about a guy in New York that jumped off a building. No one stopped in the streets below, to tell him to stop. I wonder if it would have made a difference, if just one person saying "No, don't do it, you'll be okay, someone loves you!" would have solved everything. I bet it woulda.

I'm sure if someone said that to me, I'd be okay too. Not the whole "don't do it" thing, because I'm too much of a pussy to even kill myself – I tried once, back in ninth grade, but I burst into tears as soon as the knife touched my wrist. I never tried again – but if someone were to just...tell me that they love me.

I started dating all of Kenny's leftovers sometime back in the middle of tenth year. By the time he was done with them, they were needy, craving affection. No matter which girl it was, not a single one of them would say they loved me, even if I said it first. I never meant it, but that isn't the point. I just wanted to hear someone say it.

Nowadays the only one who makes me happy is Bebe. I spend a lot of time at her house, letting her do what she wants to me. She won't tell me that she loves me, but when it's dark, she kisses and strokes me all over, and it shows me that she at least cares.

When we're in class, she sends me secret looks and plays footsie with me. She always gives _me_ her dessert at lunch, and brings me sandwiches sometimes too.

I stand up from my window and head over to the phone, smiling. I need some loving right now, and Bebe knows how to give it to me.


	8. Sexy

**Sexy**

When I'm Clyde, I know that no one cares.

I guess you could say I stole the idea from Butters. For him though, it's an identity thing. He doesn't know who he is. For me, it's just a way to get people to pay attention.

I'm Clyde Donovan – usually. I'm a football player, a dumbass, and sometimes a thug, when my friends need it. Usually.

Right now everyone calls me Clementine. We're at a club in Denver, and my hand is rubbing loosely over the front of some guys jeans. I'm wearing a tight red dress, and Bebe helped stuffed my bra so that it looks like I have nice tits. I'm a curvy dude, so adding a few extra curves to myself as a woman just seemed natural.

My ass is already hot apparently, so I don't have to do anything with it.

The guy I'm stroking doesn't know that I'm a dude. He'll probably never know either, unless he cops a feel and is sober enough to realize that "Whoa hey, that's not a vagina."

His eyes are rolling in his head, and he reeks like a brewery, so I highly doubt he'll figure it out.

Bebe is flirting with the bar tender, using her arms to push her massive breasts forward. I stare at them for a few seconds, and the man leans down to whisper in my ear. "Hey sweetie. You and your friend want to have a little fun?"

I don't want this creep touching Bebe, so I run my tongue along his ear and give him a squeeze. "No, just you and me. I don't think she could handle you." I purr against him, mentally laughing at the groan he makes in the back of his throat.

His hand closes harshly over my upper arm, and I fight the instinct to flex it. If he felt how solid I could be, he'd figure it out. That or, you know, think I'm a weight lifting bull dyke or some shit. He gives me a jerk, and I stumble after him towards the men's bathroom, unable to hear the loud clicking of my high heeled shoes over the steady beat of the music.

We stumble into a stall, and his hands go to the bottom of my dress. I push them away, shaking my head. "No condom."

He grins. "I have one."

For a second, panic flares inside of me. Then I realize that I could probably beat his face in if he didn't bother to stop. I smirk and shake my head, flicking my tongue against his lips. "I wanna use my mouth." I breath against him, watching him take a deep breath. He nods and I slide down to my knees.

I'm sort of disgusted that I'm used to this.

I unzip his pants and pull his cock out. He's been hard for a while, and it's a dark, angry, purple-red color. I trail my tongue over the head of it, pausing to pop it into my mouth for a lengthy suck. He groans, and I groan back, other hand rising to squeeze his balls.

I pull away and look up at him from beneath my lashes, seeing that he's staring down at me, transfixed. "Tell me you love me." I whisper to him.

He does and I bow my head once more.

Another pause. "Tell me again."

Another pause. "Again."

Soon there's an endless stream of "I love you" "you're beautiful" "you're perfect" and everything feels right. I close my eyes and imagine that he's someone else. I'm not gay, but this works more often than not.

In my mind, he's Craig, my best friend, telling me all these wonderful things, while he holds me close and caresses my body.

Suddenly, he's Token, calling me his pretty taco, and licking left over jolly rancher juice off of my lips.

He'll never _ever_ be Tweak, because that one is just _way_ to weird to think about.

But he's Cartman, Stan, and Kenny, and for a split moment, he's even Kyle.

He's finished, and I'm standing up. As we stare into each other's eyes, I realize he's none of those people. He's just some man I met in a club, who I sucked off in a dirty bathroom.

He's the man whose stealing my purse, with all my money inside, whose slamming my head into the wall and zipping his pants, rushing out of the stall.

As I slip down to the floor, knowing Bebe will eventually come looking, I laugh to myself.

Yeah, he's not any of those things, but I'm fucking sexy and he loves me, and that's all that matters.


	9. Sexuality

**Sexuality**

I am really, really glad that Stan's drunk. He's thrusting into me half assed, lapping at my throat and collarbone with sloppy kisses, and he's totally out of it. It's good, because I can close my eyes and pretend his whining voice is the sultry one that I want to hear. I wrap my legs further around his waist, grinding down into him softly, letting him tell me that he loves me.

When he comes, he cries out my name. When I rub myself to completion, I hiss Bebe's name into Stan's shoulder. He's passed out by now, and didn't hear me. Thank God for small miracles and all that, right?

It takes me a minute to push him off of me, and then I'm sliding out of bed. I slip on my pink lace bra and panty set, then finally my mini skirt and tank top. I pull on my socks lazily, boots soon following. I leave him a note telling him that it's over, that, because of his drinking, I don't want him anymore.

I slink down the stairs and past Randy, whose already snoring on the couch, a collection of beer cans laying around his feet. I shake my head in disgust.

The drinking is part of it, but the other part is that I can't keep lying to myself.

Growing up, I loved to dress like a boy. I did it often when hanging out with the guys. I never got into people like Brittany Spears or Paris Hilton. I was may more content to play soccer, or football. Sure, I liked the color pink, and I wanted a pet pony but...

I used to think that I wasn't gay. That I had just been with Stan for too long, and I just didn't know what kind of guy I was into. So, I broke up with Stan. This was back in tenth grade. I tried dating other people – Token, Craig, even Kyle...although Kyle was so grossed out by the thought of dating his super best friends ex, he wouldn't even say two words to me.

I'd like to say that Stan turned me gay, but looking back on my whole eighteen years of life, I really should have seen it coming.

Feminist, over achiever, cross dresser...Of course, none of those things can necessarily label you as gay, bi, or straight. Still, I should have noticed the signs back then, so I wouldn't be so put out now.

I love to look at Bebe's breasts. I always have. I just figured it was because mine are so small, and hers are massive. When we have sleepovers and get into tickle fights, I like to brush my fingers against the sides of her breasts. It used to be because that's her most ticklish spot. Now it's because I can't get over how soft and warm they feel.

Cartman once said breasts are girlnuts. After having to jack Stan off so many times – sometimes, it's hard to fake that I like sex with him – I have to say that I agree with fatass. Except breasts aren't hairy or disgusting.

Yeah, me thinking of male genitals as nasty should have been a rainbow colored neon sign flashing in my brain, telling me to stop trying to be straight.

My parents are very open minded, they'll love me no matter what I am. I'm sure Bebe would be fine with it. Stan would probably blame himself, and his friends would think that it's hot. Actually to be honest, as religious as our town is, no one would hate me for being gay. I mean, Mr Slave and Big Gay Al are still living together – they're such a sweet couple, really – and Mr/Mrs Garrison – not different people, the same person, different genders depending on his/her mood – has lived in this town since forever.

I don't know why the thought bothers me so much. Homosexuality is nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe though, it's not even the sexuality that's bugging me. It could just be who I have feelings for.

My mom and Bebe's mom were friends in high school. They were pregnant around the same time. I've literally know Bebe since we were both in the womb. I love her more than anyone will ever know, and I don't want to ruin our friendship by telling her that I like her.

I can't tell her I dream about her at night, or that when she asks me to brush her hair, it fills me with so much excitement I nearly explode. That when I have sex with my now ex boyfriend, I think of her. I can't tell her any of these things.

I look up as the red and blue lights of an ambulance zoom by me, and shake my head. A quick glance around tells me I'm almost at Bebe's house. I sigh, shaking my head. Of course, I'd go to her place first. That makes perfect sense – when something's wrong, we run to each other, even if the other is the cause of the pain.

No, that's not fair. She's never hurt me, and this isn't her fault. It's no one's fault.

I pause on the sidewalk as the ambulance turns into a too familiar drive way. My heart begins to pound painfully in my chest as I lunge forward, breaking into a run. Years of being on the swim and track teams have left me with a fit figure, and I'm fast.

I get to the Stevens' drive way in record time, darting around the ambulance and Bebe's dad's car. Before I get to the door, an officer grabs me around the waist and pulls me to the side. It isn't Barbrady, I have no idea who this asshole is. I struggle, screaming nonsense that even I can't understand.

I watch as the front door of Bebe's house swings shut behind two paramedics and a stretcher.


	10. Skinny

**Skinny**

Someone's asking me if I can hear them, but my response dies on my lips. The words feel too heavy inside of me, and my brain feels like it's full of cotton. I think I'm moving my tongue but I can't really feel it, so I can't be so sure.

The person asks me if I'm okay and I laugh inside the safety of my own mind, eyes fluttering open to loll uselessly inside my skull.

If someone, _anyone_ had taken the time to ask me this last week, last month, last _year_, I probably wouldn't be here right now. I know I'm on a stretcher. The man above me smells like a hospital – clean and disinfected, fully prepared to stick his hands inside places where they're not welcome.

If someone had taken the time to noticed that something was wrong, to ask me what it was, I'd have told them it had started off perfectly innocent. And really, it did. In the beginning it was harmless.

It all started with a diet. When Wendy and I turned fourteen, she was getting skinnier and I just seemed to be getting bigger. Even Red and Heidi somehow managed to stay tiny, despite how much damn junk food they ate. I remember Wendy telling me that gaining weight was normal – I had big breasts, most women with big ones have a bit of a stomach too. "It's nothing to be ashamed of." she had whispered to me in the middle of the night. We were having a sleep over, and I had told her my fear of being a disgusting whale.

But it is something to be ashamed of. I'm Bebe Stevens. I'm beautiful, I'm funny, and I can't be fat.

So I went on a diet. I cut most junk food out, and it helped – a little. During sleep over's and parties, I wouldn't eat with the other girls. No ice cream, no chocolate, no cakes or pastries.

Yeah, it did help a little. I stopped gaining weight. But then I realized that I wasn't losing any either.

I dropped my after school club – school newspaper, I had joined when Wendy did – and made daddy buy me a membership to South Park's only gym. I went every day after school. The machine in our bathroom kept telling me I was gaining weight, when all I wanted to do was fucking _lose_ it. My stomach and thighs didn't jiggle anymore; They were solid, sturdy. The thought that I had turned my fat into muscle didn't soothe me. Again, Wendy was there, trying to tell me it was okay. "You're not fat, you have muscle Bebe."

It was muscle, but it was fucking huge. I went on every diet I could think of and nothing worked. When I stopped going to the gym, the muscle receded back into jiggling flab. I felt like Eric Cartman.

Everywhere I turned, people told me I was healthy, I was fine. I didn't believe it. When I looked into the mirror, I felt like I would vomit. That's when the idea came to me.

I started eating junk food again. Sometime during the night, I'd tell my friends I had to go to the bathroom, and I'd vomit everything up. In the end, the only thing it accomplished was foul breath and concern from my dentist and mother. That idea quickly fled. Vomiting all my food up only made me feel worse in the end.

I don't think I would have ever found the solution, if it weren't for Kenny McCormick. He had asked me out on a date, and despite my better judgement, I agreed. We had had to stop off at his house first, and upon entering, I realized why Kenny was so skinny.

He never ate.

Looking around his rat and cockroach infested shack, it hit me. Kenny couldn't afford food. Eric had once said Kenny ate waffles for breakfast. All the McCormick's were skinny – save for Stu, who had a beer belly from way too much drinking – and it was all due to the fact they were too poor to eat.

To this day, I feel guilty for being envious of Kenny's misfortune. His little sister, Karen, would never know what it's like to be fat, unless she got pregnant – which was a high possibility, seeing as the McCormick's are well...McCor_hick_'s is more reasonable a name for them. But she was skinny, and always would be. I could see her joints popping as she stretched out on the couch, kicking the eldest brother and trying to steal the remote away from him.

I was anorexic. I _am_ anorexic. At school, I give Clyde my lunches, my desserts. He thinks I fancy him, and I do, to a point. He's a good guy. But I only give him my food so I don't have to eat it. I'm not ashamed of what I am, I just don't like to broadcast it.

It hurts me inside, knowing that no one noticed. Not my best friend, or the boy that claims to be in love with me. People tell me I'm fine, and all I want is for someone to tell me I'm beautiful. Not hot, or sexy, but beautiful. Lots of people have sex appeal, very few have beauty.

Seeing Kenny's poverty is what put me here today, on this stretcher. With a start, I realize I'm being wheeled through the doors of the hospital. I've only been here once, and that was with Wendy when she twisted her ankle during a track meet.

I'm being hooked up to machines now, and someone is leaning over me, telling me I'm going to be just fine. I feel my mouth curl into a smile, but it's not a happy one. It's sarcastic. I wonder how long it'll take me to get put back into the hospital, or if my parents will pay for me to have liposuction.

Either way, I know that this 'disease' I have, isn't going to go away.


	11. Terrified

**Terrified**

When Ky sits down for therapy sessions with mom and dad, I want to laugh at him. He thinks his problems are fucking huge, and you know what? They're not. Our parents are crazy as all hell, but we're so used to that by now, that it seems _normal._ The only problem Kyle really has, is that I'm smarter than him. He takes it so...personally.

But he's not the only one I'm smarter than. He thinks it's hard, being my brother. But he can keep up with me. When I entered his classes, and I raised the curve, his marks weren't affected. His grades stayed the same. He never, ever, lost his place. Sure, he wasn't the smartest anymore, but he was still better than everyone else behind us.

I guess I shouldn't be so hard on him. I just find it increasingly difficult to sympathize with his...hate?...for me, when I'm hiding behind a trash can, twenty minutes after school. All the teachers are gone by now – being the lazy jerk they are – and there's no escape for me.

I'm** terrified** and Kyle thinks _he's_ got it bad. It's not so easy to beat up Stan Marsh's super-best-friend. It's a hell of a lot easier to beat up Stan Marsh's super-best-friends-little-brother. Which is exactly what I am.

Little.

Kyle's brother.

To put it simply, I've caught the hate they have for him, and for me. And it hurts. A lot.

Casting a quick glance around, I slowly pull myself to my feet. I can't see anyone, nor can I hear them. I think they may have given up on looking for me. With a deep breath, I swiftly walk towards the boys bathroom, wondering where I'll find my backpack this time.

Last time, they drenched all my books in sink, and attempted to flush my backpack down the toilet. It didn't work too well, but mom was pissed that she had to pay for it all – not that we can't afford it – and I had been grounded afterwards. Again.

Kyle doesn't know, but I'm _this_ close to being kicked off of my hockey team, because I have to keep missing practices. Mom doesn't make exceptions for anything, when she grounds me.

Surprisingly, my bag is intact. I can see it as soon as I walk into the bathroom. It's sitting against the far wall, looking lonely, and whole. I breathe a sigh of relief and continue the trek forward. As I bend to get the bag, I hear a soft clicking noise from behind me.

With a start, I realize that someone's locked the door.

I'm not alone in the bathroom.

They didn't hunt me down.

They waited me out.

I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat and let my bag drop back to the floor. There's no point in picking it up. I have a lot of books in there, but these are football guys. Yeah, I play hockey, but I've hardly hit puberty yet – what? It's a fact – and I know that me smacking someone with a bag full of books will only make me look more female.

It'll only make them hurt me more.

I turn slowly, and lean against the wall, eyeing the three guys in front of me. As my heart starts jack hammering in my chest, but never once do I let them see that I'm afraid. It's all they want really – to see me scared. If I don't give them that, maybe I can at least walk away with a little bit of my dignity, when they're done brutalizing my face.

The tallest boy – a blond, I don't know his name, which is funny, actually...sort of ironic really – begins to prowl forward. I somehow manage to keep my face black, my stance casual. I nearly jump in surprise when he reaches out and caresses my cheek, feather light. My whole body is tensed, waiting for the blow.

It doesn't come, and my brow finally furrows.

Blondie there smiles at me, and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. "Hey kiddo. You know, I never really noticed, but you Canadians are sort of pretty." His voice is soft, but the tone doesn't get rid of the danger in his words.

In response, I blink and tilt my head back, levelling him with a cool glare.

He laughs, shaking his head. "Real pretty. Kind of alien. With your flapping heads, and beady eyes." His voice has become a murmur, and a shiver of unease creeps up my spine. He steps even closer, and suddenly, his hand is around the back of my neck.

I don't fight as he drags me towards the stalls. I don't fight when he spins me around to face the mirror.

Instead, I stare into my own eyes, refusing to look at his. I can see, vaguely, when his friends come to gather around. I wonder what exactly they have planned for me today.

"Look. So pretty you can't even stop staring at yourself." Blondie laughs again, louder this time. I can't help but flicker my eyes up to his face.

His own eyes are dark, dangerous. When they dart down, I allow mine to follow.

I nearly pass out when I see the knife in his hand. Nearly but – not quite. I close my eyes and take a deep, calming breath. Yeah, this is South Park, but my mom would throw a fucking _fit_, probably get the military here, if this asshole murdered me in a school bathroom.

I feel the sharp edge of the blade scrape lightly against my ribs, sliding down to the hem of my pants. The sound of ripping fabric fills my ears, and suddenly, as if out of my control, my body begins to struggle.

I thrash as hard as I can, but all it earns me is laughs. I don't notice that they've turned the water on, until the sink is full and my face is being shoved into the ice cold water.

The cold makes me gasp, and I begin coughing, trying to hack up the lungful of water I just inhaled. I can't hear anything over the pounding of my own heart, but I can feel. I can feel hands creeping along my body, where they aren't supposed to be.

My head is pulled up for a second, and I splutter. As the knife carves into my hip, leaving a nice little mark, I finally scream.

I scream for Kyle.

They laugh, and I cry, both of knowing he's not coming.

As my face gets shoved into the water again, my tears mingle with it. I keep my eyes firmly closed, mouthing my brother's name over and over and over.

Later, my face is still in the water, and darkness is creeping along the edges of my vision, and somehow after all of this, I still feel terrified.


	12. Death

**Death**

When I was little, I was happy. It was only after I got my brace that I turned into a super bitch. Dad likes to call it PMS, but it's closer to a little thing called oh...depression?

It's not easy, living in a town of rejects, being the most rejected. As a child, I was manly looking, with a head brace, a lisp. No one has any idea what I went through, and to be honest, I doubt anyone except mom cares.

Even being a mega bitch, I was still loyal. I beat up that Trent kid for Stan, when the fucker wouldn't leave him alone. Oh, pardon my language. Mom says it's not ladylike to swear, you know. As if anyone in South Park is ladylike. Even Sheila isn't that much of a lady.

I can act the part though. Of being a lady. It's easy for me. Now that the brace is off, and I've grown up, I'm a lot better. I'm pretty. Prettier than mom ever was, when she was my age. My breasts are bigger too.

This is the only moment in my life thus far, where I have wished I was an eleven year old brace face man-girl. Thanks to the beauty I've developed, I'm in the worst possible position I could ever imagine myself in.

I've never been this scared, not even when the Ginger's attacked and tried to take things over - you know, when we found out Cartman and Scott were half brothers?

I tremble slightly, and pull my coat tighter around my body, dragging myself away from my thoughts. I watch for a moment, as my breath crystalizes in the air in front of me, making mist rise around my face. Acting like a fire breathing dragon is just that; an act. I'm just a girl, dammit.

As the building I've been dreading to visit looms closer in my vision, I cringe. A part of me wishes I had more friends, that I didn't have to do this alone. I don't really have any friends to ask for help - I'm pretty, and popular, you know they're all fake - and the whole reason I'm here is so mom didn't know.

I know she'd love me no matter what, but damn. This is big.

I push open the front doors of the building, palms sweaty and body shaking. I find myself slinking towards the front desk, staring at the ground as the receptionist smiles at me, a look full of pity.

"Shelly Marsh?"

I nod wordlessly, swallowing around a lump in my throat. My voice doesn't want to work, and to be honest, I hardly have the control to move, let alone have a conversation.

She hands my the paper work to sign, and when I'm finished, she leads me through the door. To my surprise, she holds my hand the entire time.

When all is said and done, I walk out of the abortion clinic feeling the same. I stop on the sidewalk outside of it, and stare at the doors with a mixture of emotions rolling around inside of me.

I feel loss, and sadness, but relieved and happy. But mostly? Mostly I hate myself.

Like I said though, I feel more or less the same.

****

**Admittedly short, I can't help it. Sorry if the topic offends anyone, but I figured when you started reading you'd realize that not everything is so happy and fun in South Park this year. It feels SO GOOD to be updating again, and finally, after so freaking long, Secrets is complete! Yes folks, that's right. This is done! Not a great ending, but a sad one, that ends with an end, so to speak. These were my twelve, and they are done done done done done! I'm so happy! Ugh! Thank you to everyone that stuck out through all of the waiting, and to the new fans who come to Secrets with new eyes.**

**I hope that, despite the horrifying and disturbing things written in here, that everyone still enjoyed reading. Remember though, without sadness, there is no happiness! And Secrets make people.**

**Happy reading all!**


End file.
